


Broken People Get Recycled

by poemwithnorhyme



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Isaac/Stiles friendship, M/M, Stiles/Chris friendship, fae!Stiles, open-ended conclusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-14 01:18:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poemwithnorhyme/pseuds/poemwithnorhyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing is ever just calm in Beacon Hills. No, something always has to go wrong, and this time, it's Stiles' turn in the spotlight. That doesn't mean he has to like it. Post S2 AU<br/>Fae!Stiles</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken People Get Recycled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scrapbullet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/gifts), [and Alex](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=and+Alex).



> Warning: There is a bit of canon-level molestation in this. Also, gratuitous use of the "Runs with Wolves" trope.  
> Note that this is really more pre-Derek/Stiles  
> Title from "The Flood" by Katie Melua

1

It starts out small, it really does. It's that thing with the mountain ash that sparks his veins in a way he has never felt before. It's not just success, oh no, it's something all the more powerful. Something that screams purpose. And Stiles cannot let it go, even if everyone else already has – hell, no one has even asked him about it. 

But he knows, even if they don't. And so does Deaton.

2

Deaton won't tell him anything, but he does hand him a little container of mountain ash and tells him to keep it at hand. Other than that, he just keeps smiling and repeating, “You'll find out in due time. For now, just relax, Stiles.”

Yeah, like the best friend of a freaking werewolf can possibly find the time to relax!

3

He watches Lydia run to him, to the one she truly loves. Jackson. Stiles feels the tears come, stinging so severely that he can only try to blink them away. It's so embarrassing, and even if no one ever looks at him, his face feels like an inferno anyways. 

They look meant to be. Hell, they've even got the perfect cockblocking spotlight from his own backstabbing jeep.

He's heart-broken, and he knows it shows. The bruises on his face, the emotional turmoil afterward, all of it, is nothing compared to how he feels at this very moment.

He has lost all hope. Oh sure, maybe in a day or two he'll pretend to be just as determined as ever, but he'll be lying. He can see that even if these two fated, star-crossed lovers part ways, Lydia will never see Stiles as anything more than a reminder of what she will have lost, and all that she'd felt tonight; this overwhelming despair of having lost the potential of true love.

He's got no chance and it's terrifying and depressing all at once. So yeah, he tells Scott that it's just the shitty scratch on his shitty jeep, because his best friend should _know_ it's not just that. Thankfully, he does. Scott gives him a perceptive nod and lets him go. It is more than enough support, for now. He'll be sure to bring it up later, and Stiles will act like he is just rolling with the punches.

The show must go on, as they say, and he's not the hero.

4

His bruises heal strangely quickly. Like, super quickly, actually. Within two days, they are gone; the skin as smooth as before, completely unmarked. It's still sore to the touch, and it aches almost constantly. So all of the symptoms of a bruise, yet there isn't one.

It's weird, but he accepts it as a good thing. Maybe some of Scott's werewolf magic has rubbed off on him or something. That'd be awesome. 

Or maybe it's something more.

 

5

He's told that Peter Hale is still alive two days after the fact, but he lets it slide considering how hectic everything has been. How it happened is pretty fucking crazy too, and it kind of makes him want to hug Lydia, except she'd hurt him, and so would Jackson, so it's an absolute no to giving in to any such empathetic urges.

He even has to resist giving her a sympathetic look the next time he sees her.

Despite the beforehand knowledge, he has a bit of a spaz attack when Peter corners him in the woods. Maybe the freak out is a bit much, because, sure, he's technically _seen_ him before, but he hadn't been real focused. To be honest, he'd figured Peter was a figment of his imagination, since, y'know, he'd had his brains beaten in just hours earlier.

No such luck. In spite of having been a witness to the Peter-Hale-barbeque as well as the cutthroat finale, Peter is definitely alive again, as well as ridiculously well-stubbled.

It isn't seeing him again that cinches it though. It's the moment Peter gets _close_ , when he flicks down and sniffs Stiles, exhaling on the back of his neck as he steps around him, circling back to face him.

Stiles goes stiff, the hairs on his arms standing to shiver-inducing attention. He finds himself holding his breath, it's an instinct, and every alarm he possesses goes off in tandem. He feels as though his body is made of pure static.

“Hello again, Stiles. Good to see you. You look the same as before. Congratulations for scraping by unscathed. Now, why are you wandering around my woods?”

“Your woods? Haven't you ever watched Pocahontas? You can't own trees.” It's lame, even by his standards.

Peter raises a brow, and that's dangerous. 

“What is it with you Hales? Derek accused me of trespassing too. Well, I was. Just like I am now. So, I guess you have a point. And I suppose you're still going to make me tell you why?”

The expression is enough to convince Stiles to proceed with a valid excuse, but all he can really offer is the truth.

“I'm taking a walk. Just a walk. I... find the woods calming, that's all. Is that okay with you?” His tone makes it quite obvious that he doesn't actually care if Peter gives him permission or not.

The assessing stare he receives is definitely a little more than disconcerting, but he stands his ground. He has a reputation to uphold, after all.

“Why on Hale land?” Peter sighs, impatience causing a tick to appear in his cheek.

“C'mon, don't you trust me? I only ever tried to toss a Molotov cocktail on you that one time.”

Peter narrows his eyes, cocking his head, “If I still wanted retribution, I would have taken it days ago. Now, answer my question.”

Stiles can't help but flinch a little. Peter could be intimidating with less than a sentence, and he'd given him two.

“I mean it. I'm just on a walk. This being Hale land didn't influence my choice any, okay?”

Peter's expression isn't exactly one of disbelief, but it isn't reassuring either. He leans in again, looking past Stiles' shoulder as he sniffs him for the second time. He puts a hand on Stiles' upper arm, a gesture which stops him from running before he even realizes he has taken a step back.

Peter's eyes are really stupidly blue. That's all he can think when Peter catches his gaze. Not 'oh shit, he's going to eat me' or 'I should probably be fighting him, even if I'd lose.' His next thought? They somehow resemble Jackson's in the most pretentious of ways.

If there is a bigger turn-off in the world, he can't think of one. Like magic, he is shoving the werewolf away, a little shocked when Peter lets him.

However, he also growls at him, and yep, those are some pointy teeth right there; perfectly suited for ripping apart vulnerable flesh. His vulnerable flesh to be exact. Yet, Peter doesn't seem angry in the least. His eyes are intent, mouth tilted downward like a predator. 

“Stiles, it seems you _have_ changed.”

Stiles is the one to invade Peter's personal space this time around, stabbing a finger into his chest, “What are you talking about?”

Peter smiles, and it's oily and perturbing, “If that is genuinely the case, well, you're welcome to enjoy the trees all you wish. Share in their strength, Stiles. You're going to need it. But be careful; we are no longer the only pack in the area.”

Before he leaves, Peter imparts one last thing, “If you ever have any questions, Stiles, any at all, feel free to come to me. I know a lot more than the Argents ever could about the otherworld. Just keep me in mind.”

6

Peter's phrasing had been funny, uncanny really, because Stiles _does_ take strength from the trees. It is the exact aim of his walk; it always is. There's something about plants this old; they've seen it all. Sure, the trees get younger and younger every year as more are ravaged by human greed, but this place? Hale land? It's untouched, and free for the roaming – so he had thought.

So yeah, he'd lied to Peter, but it isn't the first time. Besides, Derek hadn't been around for weeks, and even when he is roaming about, Stiles has never bothered to ask him for approval, and Derek has never tried to stop him.

Peter involving himself has thrown him off a bit, but he does his best to get back into the mood, gazing up at the various branches as he walks. He is thoroughly untroubled by the prospect of tripping. He never trips, unless he is seriously distracted. The dreary gray light that flickers through the leaves is perfect – he doesn't have to squint. It had rained earlier, though simply a minor spritz. The clouds are still dark with their heavy burdens no matter, and Stiles regrets not grabbing that umbrella his dad had insinuated he'd complain about not taking.

His dad knows him too well. That, or his dad is old enough that his knees do that weird psychic weather thing. 

It's at this point during his senseless ruminations that he realizes what Peter had said. Not the only pack...

Of course, this is also when a howl rings out, crisp and reverberating off every hollow. He prays whoever that creepy ass call belongs to is one of Derek's. 

That being said, he decides turning around is far past due. Contrary to his recent streak of luck, he makes it to his jeep without any hindrance, with the bonus of accomplishing such a feat before the sun fully plummets past the horizon. He thinks he's in the clear, a grin on his face as he drives home, which is predictably when it all goes to hell. 

Something crashes into the hood of his precious jeep, and the car flips – Stiles is only somewhat aware of this, observing it in some sort of out of body experience. He guesses it could be the same phenomenon that he read can sometimes accompany certain kinds of trauma. By the time the car stops teetering, the airbag has properly smushed his face into the headseat so that he is forced to look out of the side-window. 

The wolf that had crashed his car is stalking the remains of his jeep. Stiles watches through the medium of cracking glass, but he can't really bring himself to care all that much. He is too occupied by a nauseating fog and the ringing in his ears, as they both appear to be engaged in a bid for the most disorientating symptom of dying.

The wolf's claws smash through the fractures in the glass in order to get to him, and Stiles can't even struggle. His seatbelt, which had been holding him up as well as suffocating him a tad, is sliced from his chest, along with a little sliver of skin but it isn't like that matters at this point.

Yep, he's going to die.

But then he remembers...

The wolf is blowing its hot, rank-smelling breath right in his face, and that alone is enough motivation to push past every twinge of pain as he reaches into his pocket. The wolf is engrossed in sniffing his neck, Alpha-red eyes trained on his own. It's not Derek though, he's seen Derek and this isn't him.

He pops open the top of Deaton's gift to him, propelling it directly into the wolf's eyes, hoping particles get into his fanged-and-way-too-close mouth as well. The wolf's reaction couldn't have been better if Stiles had planned it. He yelps, sharp enough to echo, before scrambling away in a glorious, yipping mess.

Someone must have been alerted to the other Alpha's presence, and Derek has to be in the neighborhood, right? Hell, he'll take Peter at this juncture. Even Isaac, or Boyd and Erica, since those two seem to come in a pair lately.

He hopes the cavalry arrives soon, because he's pretty sure he's bleeding out. Water droplets are finally making their descent, mingling with his blood in a stream down towards the ditch. He's got bits of glass embedded just about everywhere, and his head was throbbing as though the wolf had banged his skull into the pavement just for funsies.

He recognizes that he's blacking out only when he's awakened by the pushy nose of what could only be a wolf, since this is his life and not some average teenagers', wherein the animal in question would just be a hapless doggie. 

He squirms, but it only hurts, so he groans and ceases any movement. A whine rumbles through his skin, and for some reason, he feels reassured rather than scared or apathetic. That is progress, right? He's not going to die?

The nose nudges at his hand, and he gets the message, fingers curling in fur. His grip is tested as gravity begins to pull at him. He holds strong, and is lifted up onto a strong back, held tight by gentle claws around his legs. He drops his head onto the were's shoulders, the soft coat acting as an excellent pillow. He rests there, wrapped in the somehow comforting scent of earth, soil humus and mulched leaves instead of wet dog as he might have expected had he been totally lucid. Add in the soothing rock of the wolf's running form, and a crapton of bloodloss, and Stiles is out in seconds.

7

“I was hoping never to have to see you in a hospital bed.”

“Yeah, my bad...”

“No, that's not what I mean, Stiles, and you know it. Don't make jokes right now. You scared me, and I've been scared far too many times this week. This can't happen again. I can't lose you like I lost your mother. I can't.”

His dad's hand tightens on his shoulder instead of pushing him away, as Stiles imagines will occur one day soon. He revels in it for now, letting himself be crushed by an overwhelming sense of affection. He loves his father, just as his father loves it – and they both are well aware of it. They say it often enough. But it's only after something werewolf related, which his father is still blissfully unenlightened about, that it truly hits him like a cement block to the chest. 

He has so much to lose.

Perhaps that innocence is no longer so blissful. Maybe it is time to tell him. Well, not right _now_ , not while the psych ward is just a stone's throw away.

He's not that stupid, even with a concussion. It can wait.

8

The first thing Stiles asks for when Scott visits is a nice smell test. 

“Smell you? Why?” Scott asks, bewildered in that adorably dopey way of his.

“I need to know who rescued me. Yeah, yeah, rescued me, like a damsel in distress. It was a werewolf, and I have no clue who. And the wolf who attacked me? Definitely an Alpha. Peter said there is more than one wolf pack in Beacon Hills now too, so-”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down for a bit. I thought you'd just had a car accident. One epiphany at once please.”

Stiles makes a face, but concedes, throwing his hands into the air, even if it pulls at his bandages as well as the aching muscle underneath. “Okay, okay.”

It doesn't take long to get through everything. After all, they share a very unique language. Scott has been his best friend for years. They grew up together, and even if he doesn't know Stiles as well as he once did, they still understand each other better than anyone else.

He nonetheless leaves out the parts about _knowing_ something is yet to come, and it has nothing to do with the other night. Nothing to do with Gerard, or even Peter. Maybe it's the Alphas – but his intuition tells him otherwise. Tells him to look within, despite how laughably self-indulgent that seems. 

Yet, everyone else has stepped into the spotlight at least once. Everyone except for him. It is only logical that he's next, since Beacon Hills can never be normal for a month. So yeah, it's going to be his turn, even if he doesn't want it to be.

So sue him if he doesn't feel like discussing it right now.

Scott sniffs him in the end, and informs him that he smells too much like sterile hospital to get any reading. Well damn. Then Scott gives him some actual good advice, “Why don't you try to remember the scent yourself? Try to track it down? Sure, you don't have senses like me, but if you get close enough, every werewolf has a particular scent. Even Allison and Lydia have commented about it. Maybe talk to one of them?”

9

His injuries definitely hurt like a bitch, so he's glad for the provided morphine, but the funny thing is that they're going away so quickly. Precisely like the cut on his lip and the bruises on his face. The doctors are baffled, and so is he, because guess what? He's still in plenty of pain here, but the marks fade more every day. 

He doesn't understand it, but he still gets released within three days.

10

Lydia is the first one to see him after he returns home. She brings cupcakes with her, giving him a coy smirk as she hands them over. He smothers the rubbermaid against his chest, blathering endearments to both the desert and the goddess that baked them.

“Don't get too excited. Sorry to burst your bubble, but I made a big batch with Allison, who needed to get out of the house, and I had some left over. Thought you'd appreciate the sugar-boost.”

It's different with Lydia now, after Jackson. She knows about everything, and had threatened them with what would happen if she is left out of the loop again. It doesn't go back to the way it was, it never can, but a lot still seems the same. Allison and Scott are still dancing around each other like the hormonal teenagers they are. Jackson and Lydia are still trying to patch up their relationship and make it work. But they are all bonded now, somehow. Even Jackson is a smidgen nicer to him. And Lydia? Well, that's the best part. 

She is treating him like a _friend_ , which is pretty cool. It'd be torture if he still liked her, but luckily, he has moved past the tendency for self-destructive crushes. At least where Lydia is concerned. Now he can just enjoy becoming one of her confidants, and when he says hi to her at school, she doesn't pretend he doesn't exist! It's great, really.

Once they are in his room with the door shut, Lydia turns on him with a vicious sweetness that oozes the she-wolf she can never be, “So, car accident huh? What really happened?”

Stiles points his fingers at her and fires off a shot, “You're really getting the hang of this.”

She dips her chin expectantly, “Of course I am. I'm me.” 

And she is allowed to say that too. As demanded, he tells her everything, but just as with Scott, he skips over the most important tidbit.

“Ah, werewolf scent, huh?” she mutters, “Well, yeah, if you pay attention, Scott and Jackson both have an individual scent that even I can pick up. Maybe because I've had some practice with Jackson though...”

It doesn't hurt to hear that. Not at all. Stiles'll stick by that until he's dead.

“So, do you think everyone in Derek's pack will have a unique scent too?” 

It is almost absurd just how easy it is to sink into the lingo and not feel silly. He assumes that it is simply too real for any of them to find comical.

“Well, they're a pack, it might be different. Jackson hasn't yet submitted to Derek, and Scott rejected him...” Lydia has her thinking face on, her eyes slanted and intense.

She's gorgeous, there's no denying it. So much more than that too, and now she doesn't have to hide it. Jackson had realized how lucky he is right quick, and making amends includes encouraging her to display her brilliance in every aspect of her life rather than keeping it secret and feigning ignorant. 

Now everyone knows about her 4.2 average, not just Stiles. He had lost some of his leverage with that, he isn't going to lie, but it's still worth being a witness to Lydia's transformation. 

She's happy now, and he hopes it lasts, because she deserves it and everything else she desires.

“But I don't see why not,” she concludes,” Just might be more challenging to distinguish the difference. It's hard to explain what that even means. It's a skill that sort of grows on you with time. Good luck with that.”

As if on cue, her phone starts to sing, and from the vaguely sappy lyrics albeit hard-hitting rock background music, it must be Jackson. She perks up, tilting her chin and smiling in apology.

Stiles nods, “Okay then. Thanks for the help. See you Monday?”

11

Solely to benefit his dad, he stays in that weekend, despite really wanting to see Derek and start on his little quest. 

Instead, he dreams about Derek and his pack. Not embarrassing, maybe somewhat sexual dreams either. Horrific, bloody nightmares. Literally bloody. To the brim. Like the twin scene in the Shining only quadruple that. And it was all happening to him, to his body, his soul, while his friends watch on, indifferent and motionless. 

He doesn't sleep much.

12

Since his jeep is pretty much dead to the world, his dad drops him off at school. He arrives a little late, having forced his father to eat breakfast first (Omelets with veggies - no bacon, as his dad prefers) so when Scott greets him at the door, they immediately head to class. Boyd and Erica sit in the back while Isaac sits behind Scott and Stiles as though it's natural to do so. They don't correct him. 

Stiles has already told Scott everything, so he doesn't even feel odd when he sniffs Scott's shoulder and arm while leaning past him to grab his pencil up off the floor, and he does get a nice whiff.

Scott smells like perspiration, mostly; not the gross kind, the ordinary kind. That can't be what he's looking for...

So he takes other chances to smell him and slowly but surely, he starts to notice little intricacies to it. It's hard to explain, like Lydia had told him, but the discrepancies are there. Just an off sort of scent, something too poignant and alive; like a sentiment more than a scent. It's as though Scott smells like sugar, but not the light, grainy sort. The syrupy, too-strong stuff, something sticky and alluring.

No wonder Allison gets so lost in him; he smells fucking addicting.

He doesn't know how to describe it to Scott without sounding horny, so he doesn't so much as try.

13

Isaac is his next target, and it's much easier with him. They have lacrosse practice together, and Isaac sits with Scott and him now. He starts by deciphering between the two, meeting Isaac's suspicious gaze with every dip of his nose.

“What are you doing, Stiles?” Isaac finally inquires, perplexed and a little flustered by his behavior.

Stiles can't answer him, because he's too busy being washed in deja vue. Isaac smells faintly sweet, like earthy rot but not.

“He's trying to figure out who saved him the other night. A wolf took him to the hospital after his car accident.”

Stiles backs up, studying Isaac when he begins to fidget, a sheepish glaze overtaking his cerulean irises. 

Stiles squeezes one eye, “It was you, wasn't it?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

He looks like he's about to change the subject, and Stiles shakes his head, “Nope, we're talking about this. Right now.”

“Okay, everyone, out on the field!” 

Finstock, that cad.

“Fine then, after practice.”

14

Scott leaves early, and Stiles doesn't get the chance to talk to Isaac because he gets to experience the joy of Derek-Wall-Slamming-Hale instead.

“Why is Peter suddenly so interested in learning about you?” Derek snarls at him, a scare tactic that has gotten a little old, especially after everything he's seen.

Regardless, Stiles' back feels like it's been rammed by a train, but hey, he's suffered worse, “Sweet jesus, seriously? Come on! I've been at home all weekend, after being in the _hospital_ if you didn't already know, you asshole. Shoving an injured teenager into a locker isn't really kosher, dude.”

Derek gives him a look that says he yearns for nothing more than to fulfill the threat on his throat that he'd made so many weeks ago in Stiles' jeep, that treacherous hunk of mutilated junk. Fortunately, he backs off.

Stiles shrugs his shoulders, wincing. Every crevice of his body aches – granted, there are no visible signs of any wounds, but he still feels them, somehow, under the skin.

“The night your car got hit, Peter asked about you. Why.”

“Oh, that,” Stiles exhales, “Okay, well, I ran into him while I was walking in the woods. Your woods. He asked me why I was there, I said I was on a walk, and he left.”

Derek was back in his face, animalistic frustration tinging every word, “You're not telling me everything. Don't skip the details, Stiles, I need to know.”

“Do you really, Derek?” Stiles gets angry, sidestepping Derek to put space between then. He slips his hand into his pocket, gripping the case of mountain ash he now carries everywhere; he is ready to defend himself if need be. He refuses to be as weak as he seems, and he'll prove it if he needs to.

“The last thing I knew, I wasn't in your pack. Scott isn't, so I'm not. You can't order me around, and my life is none of your business. So no, you don't _need_ to know anything. Now, maybe if you ask rather than demand...”

Derek appears as though he's about to explode, his eyes wide, but then he's swallowing, shifting his weight to his other foot and tossing his hands out to the side in apology. 

“What did Peter say to you. Please,” he says, on the brink of being condescending in spite of his attempt at sincerity.

Stiles raises a brow, snorting none-too attractively because this is so great. He convinced Derek Hale to ask nicely! He is legit so impressed that he doesn't even contemplate refusing to answer.

“Close enough,” and with that, he launches right into it, complete with lively but pointless hand gestures, “Basically, Peter said I hadn't changed and then asked me why I was on your property. I said I was walking. He didn't believe me, then he sniffed me and growled at me like you do sometimes.” 

Derek gives him an indecipherable look at that, and Stiles catalogs it as his 'I do not approve, but this is very true' expression.

“He told me that I _did_ change, and then said I should enjoy the trees and come to him if I have any questions. Yep, that about sums it up.”

Derek is blinking, looking past him as he clearly pieces together the puzzle in his brain, “Enjoy the trees?”

He officially ruins all the progress he's been making with Stiles by grabbing the collar of his shirt and straight-up shoving his nose into his throat. Stiles makes a horrendous noise, part squeak and part gulping for oxygen.

“Whoa, hey! Why does your family keep sniffing me? No, wait, let me rephrase that – why does _everyone_ keep sniffing me?!”

Derek freezes, pulling back to glare at him, his adam's apple bopping, “What do you mean, everyone?”

“The Alpha who hit my car, he – she? - did the same thing. Dragged me out of my car just to smell me. What the hell is going on? And don't you dare vanish on me before you tell me what you know.”

Derek relinquishes his shirt.

“Great, now what the fuck? No, no, don't turn around. You're not going to tell me, are you? Nope, of course you're not, you're going to run away. Goddammit.”

It is official – Derek has trust issues the size of the whole universe, Star Wars canon included, and Stiles is just as screwed as he was before.

15

Stiles doesn't realize that Chris Argent is in his home until he's already stepped inside and therefore sufficiently trapped.

“Oh, hey, Mr. Argent,” he says, playing along, “What's up?”

Allison's dad shoots him with one of his classic 'I'm actually a good guy' grins, “Hello Stiles. Nice to see you again. I'm just showing your dad a few new guns that we got in stock – these ones are for personal use. He said you might be interested. Want to come take a look?”

His father catches his eyes, “It'd be for home-protection only, of course, but I figure you're mature enough. And with everything that's happened lately...”

Well, what can he do? He steps up to the table and takes a look, tense the whole time Chris explains each gun. He barely pays attention, too busy mulling over Chris' possible angles. 

Yeah, he knows how to shoot – his dad taught him for his birthday last year. But to purchase a gun for him? It speaks volumes, and yet, it's warranted, isn't it? Maybe this is a good thing. 

He nevertheless panics when his dad excuses himself, and he's left alone with Chris, who is almost more unnerving than Peter now that he has 'my wife is dead and I'm the only sane member of the Argent family' benefits.

“Stiles?”

He has no choice but to look at Chris, and those sad green-blue eyes of his compel Stiles to pay steady attention.

“I'm going to slip a few wolfsbane bullets into here – you make sure to take those, you understand me? I know all about the new pack, and with my father still alive, who knows what we can expect. You're still the most vulnerable out of all of us, you and your father.”

Stiles cringes, despite it simply being the bare-naked truth.

“Don't worry, I'm not going to tell him. That's up to you. You come to me if you need practice, or someone to talk to, all right?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, “I've been getting that a lot lately. Is there something in the water?”

“Wait, who else?”

Stiles doesn't get to reply, not that he would have anyways, because his dad enters the room again and this time, he doesn't leave. When Chris is packing away the most suitable gun, teaching Stiles how to clean it in a superficial lecture, he slides in an extra case of wolfsbane bullets just as promised.

His dad is none the wiser and later that night, Stiles tucks the bullets away in the back of his desk drawer.

16

He drives the rental car his dad procured for him, which is some tiny little thing that is relatively excellent on gas, to Deaton's, because he sure as hell isn't going to see Peter or Chris about this shit - whatever it is.

He's on the receiving end of the same advice as before, although he gets some training to go with it. That alone makes the trip worth it. Deaton teaches him about fennel and salt circles, both of which ward off evil spirits, because apparently ghosts and demons actually exist. Well that's not life-changing or anything.

“So, does this mean that Sam and Dean Hot-chester are real?”

Whether Deaton understands the reference or not, there is no indication. The only reaction he gets is a disappointed stare.

At least Stiles doesn't get kicked out.

Before he leaves, Deaton agrees to tutor him at least once a week. On the way home, he wonders what about him has made him so adaptable. Wouldn't a normal boy like him be overloaded by now? Oh well, best not to give it too much thought, lest he be submerged by his expanded mind like any average person would be.

17

Even if it's ill-advised, he's in the woods again, sitting between the roots of a gigantic tree with a book of magical herbs open in his lap. Deaton had recommended that he read it, and hey, the vet is his Miyagi, and who is he to disregard the counsel of Mr. Miyagi?

He hears the disturbing snap of the forest ground, jolting upwards while his fingers curl around the dust of rowan – mountain ash, as his book has informed him – in his pocket. He laments the absence of the gun his dad had bought him, but he can't tote that thing around without the fear of getting caught and pissing his dad off. Besides, he hadn't really thought about it. He isn't accustomed to owning a gun yet, okay?

He's also got a container of salt in the other pocket, and he lined his house with fennel last night. It's as though he's got a bunch of little gadgets. Maybe Deaton is more like Lucius Fox than Mr. Miyagi. Whatever his role, he's nifty.

When the intruders cross into his line of vision, his stomach goes cold and drops like a stone. Oh he is so fucked; there is two of them, and they are _not_ human – it's written in their arrogant eyes and the set of their shoulders. They're both tall and attractive, with hair on the dark side of blonde; the epitome of cliché, really, but they smile like sharks and Stiles is reasonably frightened. He doesn't let it show, not even in his heartbeat. Being around werewolves as often as he is, one picks up on these nuances.

“You two look far from home, you lost?”

Had he not been afraid for his life, he would have made some joke about lost puppies. 

The woman, who is taller than the guy and thus veritably towers over Stiles, tilts her head to the right, her eyes lightening to something remnant of softness. The curve of her pale, sensuous lips follow suit. Abruptly, the atmosphere is much less tense, but Stiles isn't fooled for a second.

“We're here to apologize...”

Stiles braces himself, cautious. She shoves her elbow into her companion's side, frowning at him and gesturing to Stiles. 

The man grumbles, plainly averse to the whole situation. 

“We're the ones who hit your car the other night.”

Stiles should have known.

“Oh. You both? I just remember one...”

The woman turns virtually playful, “Yeah, well, see, Vincent and I are like one spirit. What I want, he wants. And who he wants, I want...”

“Who...”

Her eyes are shining, glowing, really. Right out of a horror movie – surround-sound, vibrant orange; and focused all on _him_. Her twin mirrors her stance, his irises the same alarming hue.

He thinks to panic, but that's as far as he gets, and then it's just the enveloping darkness; god, what is his life...

18

The first sense that starts functioning correctly is his hearing. It's the drip of some faucet somewhere, or maybe a drainage pipe, who the hell knows, but Stiles is awake nonetheless. For once, he wakes slowly rather than jerking to an upright position, taking the chance to look around. 

He's in a house, and it's a lot like the Hale place in that it's clearly spooky and stuffed to the brim with proverbial skeletons. It's also falling apart. That's just to be expected though, nowadays.

He feels wired and uneasy; granted, he's just been kidnapped – again – so it's understandable. All the same, the sensation is again _more_. His body feels like liquid in a small cup, swishing over the edge little by little.

As with his hearing, it is not his sense of sight which alerts him to the danger first – it is his gut. He twists to look behind him, and there the figure – boy? - stands. More like sways, really. He's bleeding through a cloudy-day gray shirt, right at the waist, and Stiles has seen such a wound before.

Laura Hale had been killed the same way.

His heart races, and he can't keep it a secret this time round.

The boy's irises are bleached pink like a stale bloodstain, and looking closer, he's almost... grainy.

“You? You can see me?” he murmurs hoarsely.

“Uh, yes?” Stiles wonders if he should have been honest, because the boy flips the fuck out. He yells like Peter had after he'd bitten Lydia, and it pangs his ear-drums equally as much as before.

Then it hits him, because as silly as he can be, he's no idiot; Deaton is taking him on for a reason, and Stiles is a quick learner. He snatches the salt in one hasty and almost disastrous motion, dropping to his knees so he can spin the salt in a circle around him before pocketing it.

He spares a thought to the fennel safely tucked around his house, wishing he'd brought some, but luckily the spirit has already retreated into the ether – and it _is_ a spirit. Yet, the sole thought occupying his mind is why he hasn't ever seen a spirit at the Hale house, if they are so common. The self-imposed graveyard that Derek inhabits has to be seeping in unfinished business.

And what about his own mother? Did she part from him and his dad so easily? 

He knows it's unfair – after all, if spirits really _are_ that common, wouldn't there be more evidence out there, more people being vocal? In that vein of thinking, though, one would think that there would be more people freaking the fuck out about the fact that there are certifiable werewolves running around, so that's a dead-end presumption right there...

Well now he's just got a splitting headache on top of a panic attack. Dear lord, he has been kidnapped only to see a fricking ghost. How is one supposed to react to something like this?

It can't get worse, right?

He teaches himself how to breathe again as a distraction, so he's unsure how long it takes until the door to the room he still hasn't mustered the courage to leave is splintered off its hinges. 

“Oh, great, Mr. Argent. Punctual, as usual.”

Instead of the typically bitter but resolute smile, he is presented with a sympathetic gaze. The situation that he figured couldn't possibly get worse totally just got worse.

19

“Not just anyone can see spirits, Stiles. Not even I can.”

Stiles chews the inside of his cheek, “So that's why those wolves wanted me...”

Chris's expression proves that he can seem more dire than his default 'srs business' face, “Tell me everything.”

Stiles doesn't even pause to speculate the pros and cons of confiding in Chris, he's not sure why. He just throws himself under the bus with no hesitation. Maybe Chris can help, and hey, he's making an earnest attempt rather than just offering and expecting Stiles to crawl to _him_ for aid. 

Unless it's his dad, or on the rare blue moon Scott, no one really actively tries to help him, even small tasks like econ homework. He's generally alone, because even when people promise to support him, they're seldom there when he needs them. He's thinking about Scott in this instance, of course.

And better yet, Chris gets right to it, no pandering 'How are you feeling?' or 'You holding up all right?' Simply the information and then the solution; the end.

“Well, I should start from the beginning, huh?”

“Yes, I think that would be best.”

20

“What do you know about your mother, Stiles?” Chris asks him after he has finished detailing the past week.

“What does she have to do with anything? She's been dead for years.” The mere mention of her leaves a bad taste in Stiles mouth, like the grit of soot coating his tongue. 

“As I said, not just anyone can see spirits. You have to possess a touch of the otherworld, of magic. I know you've been seeing Deaton... what is he teaching you?”

Stiles quirks a brow, “Uh, he showed me how to use mountain ash against the kanima and werewolves. He's also the one who helped Scott with your psycho dad,” he feels almost bad when Chris averts his gaze for a moment, but then he's watching him just as closely as before, and Stiles knows better than to apologize now.

“He only yesterday taught me about salt circles and fennel. Just in time too, ha.”

Chris raises his chin, licking his lips, “Okay, good to know. What else?”

The right side of Stiles' lip twitches in anxiety, and he quickly shakes his head and laughs, “What do you mean, what else?”

“That can't be all. I'm not a newbie, Stiles. I said tell me everything.”

Stiles just watches him, delegating, this time, because there _was_ more. So much more. That icicle in his gut, the one that never seemed to thaw. The whole dilemma with his disappearing injuries...

And he can't. He just... he can't.

“There's nothing else.”

Chris judges him without _being_ judgmental, which is quite the skill, Stiles has to admit, before nodding.

“Okay. I'll take you to your car and see you home, and I will be in contact tomorrow evening.”

And that is that, no muss, no fuss. They're a long ways from Beacon Hills, at least two hours, and Stiles doesn't question how Chris knew where he was. Distance or not, Stiles is home by midnight and curled up in bed after a half-an-hour long shower that may or may not have reddened his skin solely from prolonged exposure.

21

He's nursing some pulled muscles the next day, and if Scott notices, he doesn't mention anything. Stiles is used to his indifference – it's not that Scott doesn't care. It's just that he thinks Stiles has it handled, because he always has it handled. 

Even when he does ask, Stiles more often than not opts not to explain everything, since Scott has the attention span of a year-old beagle. 

“Yo, Scott. Do you mind going with me to get my car after school today?”

“What? Oh, is that why you biked here? Where's it at, the shop?”

“No, that's my jeep. The rental is near Jennings road, actually.”

“Near the Hale place?” Scott scrunches his face up, “Why were you over there? On one of your walks?”

Stiles shrugs, “Yeah, pretty much.”

Scott frowns, opening his mouth, likely to admonish him, but then he spots Allison. For once, the girl is not being shadowed by Lydia. Scott predictably responds to this opportunity as though it's a unicorn sighting. 

He gives Stiles a helpless grin and pats him on the shoulder, “We can finish talking later. I'll go with you after school, so just wait for me by my bike, kay?”

“You got it.”

22

Isaac sits next to him in chemistry, forcing Scott to take the last available spot next to Erica. Scott shoots him a puzzled glance, and Stiles just waves a hand at him. What can he do? Erica purrs something likely sexual in Scott's ear, who starts to hold his pencil as though it is out to get him.

Stiles knows that there is some sort of lust-triangle is going on between those two and Allison, so he can only imagine the fodder this will provide for future drama.

At his side, Isaac already has paper out and ready for notes. His grades have been steadily climbing since Jackson shed his Kanima skin, as though the initial charm of being a werewolf has worn off. Stiles guesses that almost dying multiple times would do that to someone. 

“We never got to finish our conversation at practice,” Stiles murmurs.

Isaac smirks, “Why do you think I'm sitting next to you?”

“We're going to do this here? Really?”

“Why not? No one can hear us except Scott, Erica, and Jackson. Even if someone did, everyone already thinks we're deranged. Besides, I know what you want to ask me.”

Stiles waits for Isaac to continue, but there's nothing, so he finally looks away and endeavors to pay attention. Naturally, he fails to maintain any sort of focus and soon gives up, letting his mind wander. He hasn't had his adderall in three days. He'd forgotten all about it, since he hasn't had the occasion to slow down. He is so paying for that negligence now. Oh well – he is going to pass this class. Maybe not with rainbow-bright colors, but hey, he won't have to retake it and that's the key.

He'd much rather think about his problems anyways, picking them apart until his very blood is tingling with nervous anxiety and he feels liable to shatter right here and now. Yeah, this is much more fun than chemistry.

The bell rings and Stiles stands, meeting a brick wall, aka Isaac's hand, midway up. He hits his seat again. Isaac has both of his arms now perched on either side of Stiles' torso, and suddenly, it's all too serious for his tastes.

“Uh, Isaac? We're still in class, man, and this is kinda awkward.”

“Why did I help you?” Isaac says, acting as if Stiles hadn't said a word, “Because Erica and Boyd told me what you went through for Scott... And Derek has told me what you've done for him. You've saved his life more than two times, Stiles. That makes you pack, just like Scott is. To me, anyways.”

Isaac pushes away from him and walks out, Erica swiftly joining him. Scott eyes Stiles, glowering.

“Hey! Don't get angry with me! I didn't say anything. Isaac did. Is this is a territorial thing?”

Scott shakes his head, still frowning, “No, it's just... Isn't it strange how easy it is for us to accept you as an equal, as, well, like Isaac said... pack? To be protective of you? I don't care how Derek acts, he told me to take you to safety that night with Matt, instead of staying to fight. Erica and Isaac both listened to you at the club...”

“Wow, Scott, this is all very astute of you. I haven't heard you talk so much about something other than Allison in a long time. I'm flattered!”

“Stiles, don't! I'm being serious here. You were attacked by an Alpha not even days after their arrival here! They're taking you as the weak link in our pack, even if you and I don't belong to Derek. This is bad. You need to stop hanging around them, and maybe they'll get the hint.”

“Hanging around them? What do you think I do in my spare time, pass out werewolf treats or something? And what about you?! Should I stop hanging around you too?” Stiles rolls his eyes; this is all ridiculous.

“I'm not saying that! Separating ourselves is all we can do. But you do need to be more careful.”

“Good to hear you care.”

Scott nods, lightening up as he and Stiles march out of the room, side-by-side. 

Obviously, he entirely missed the sarcasm.

23

Two minutes before the final class of the day, Scott came bounding up to him, excited as the dog from the classic beggin' strips commercial.

“You won't believe what just happened! Allison said yes to a date!”

Stiles instantly knows what this is probably leading to, so he doesn't respond quite yet.

“She's only free right now though, so I can't go with you to get your car. You understand, right?”

Stiles' spirit drops, but Scott is far too engrossed in his good fortune to recognize just how much this stings. The one time he asks Scott for a favor...

“Nah, it's cool. See you tomorrow then?”

24

The trek to his crappy but not actually crappy rental car takes around an hour, but Stiles does walk slowly. He'd left his bike at home, since he doubts it could fit in his pint-sized vehicle. Despite there being kidnapping werewolves out there, as well as an assortment of other fairytale creatures so he has been informed, he treads as near to the trees as viable without being fully enveloped by the concealing branches. He simply cannot resist the temptations of nature, not when he's this stressed out.

The welcoming scent of soil and weathered bark alone is enough to send a thrill skipping down his spine.

He's actually in a good mood when he reaches his car, but that withers within seconds when Derek and Peter step out from behind it.

Stiles stops, throwing them an incredulous look, “Are you two serious?! What, were you stalking my car, waiting for me to show up?”

“Yes, actually we were,” Peter says casually, as though it's perfectly normal. Stiles hazards that, for him, it is.

“Okay, fine, whatever. You know what? I really don't care. Whatever you want can hold off for another day. I'm going home for a nice, long nap.”

“No, you're not. You're coming with us,” Derek says, customarily hostile.

“What are you going to do if I don't? I still don't buy your threats, Derek, especially not after everything we've been through. I'm not your enemy and-”

“Exactly that, Stiles,” Derek interrupts.

Stiles sniffs in exasperation, no one ever lets him finish, but settles into a disgruntled silence anyways. Derek seems to perk up at the sign of obedience, and Stiles really doesn't know how to take that. 

“The Alpha pack has requested to see you. I know that they already took you once,” his scowl returns, “but they have said that they were unaware of our claim on you.”

Stiles twitches, thinking of Scott's theory. He takes a step forward, “Excuse me? Claim? And did you say _Alpha_ pack?”

Derek's grumpy frown deepens, “Of course. It had to be done, or they could have seriously hurt you and broken no laws except for human ones. And yes, an Alpha pack.”

Stiles opens his mouth wide, truly surprised for a second or two before snapping his mouth shut, pushing his tongue into his cheek in defeat, “I should have expected that the next catastrophe would be a whole pack of a possessive and violent Alphas, and that I'd be caught in the middle, because, honestly, I always am, right?” 

He chuckles, feeling sick, “Can't say this town is ever boring. Well, where to?”

25

The rendezvous point turns out to be in the living room of the Hale house, where so much fucked up shit has already taken place. What fortuitous scheming on Derek's part, Stiles is adequately impressed.

The twins are here. They look far less menacing, although, that is true only in relation to the rest of their pack. Indeed, this group of five would have scared the bejeebus out of him even without the knowledge that they are all Alphas.

He shivers under the tangible weight of their combined power, the raw pulse of it setting his skin aflame with the urge to run, yet all he does is freeze. He doesn't realize that he's stopped moving until someone nudges his arm. It's gentle enough, but he's panicking and touching him isn't the best idea. 

Nonetheless, he calms down when he sees that it's merely Isaac.

Stiles releases a none-too smooth breath. He nods, reassuring himself to be capable of movement before taking an instinctual place next to Derek. He locks eyes with Erica and Boyd before turning, his upper arm briefly grazing Derek's, who recoils in response.

Derek's aversion to touch, particularly his, shouldn't bother him, but it does. It smacks of rejection, and considering their history, he is decidedly offended. 

Later though. He'd bring it up later.

Typically, he would now wave at his wannabe kidnappers and make some foolishly bold comment, but he feels suddenly drained. He is too tired to keep playing this game.

“Ah, is this your human then?” 

Stiles bristles, albeit too exhausted to protest in any other manner. He does, however, glare.

He almost regrets it, because then the Alpha's eyes drill into his own. They are vivid blue, but nothing like Derek's old wolf-eyes. No, blue like Selene's from Underworld, when she shot that Lycan in the first twenty minutes. Not the greatest parallel ever made, but it still stands to reason that seeing those eyes on a real life predator is like dropping his stomach into a blender.

It doesn't help that he's also made of pure, 100% rippling muscle.

“Our agreement was that once I brought him, you would ask your questions and leave,” Derek growls, patience audibly wearing thin.

The Alpha shifts his gaze to Derek, nodding before circling back to him. “My name is Nicholas. You're Stiles, if I'm not mistaken?”

Stiles doesn't so much as blink, looking at the Alpha as though he's an idiot. Pleasantries, seriously? 

The Alpha breaks out in a smile, and Stiles wonders if he should start to feel worried.

“Okay then. I'll get right to it. Vivian and Vincent should have never harmed you like they did, and I assure you, they have been properly punished. That being said, you now have information we need. The spirit you saw, what can you tell me about him?”

Clearly, no one told Derek what this interrogation was going to consist of, because his fingers dig into Stiles' shoulders.

“A spirit? Stiles, you saw a spirit?” Derek sounds distressed by the prospect.

“Oh, you didn't know about him?” Nicholas says, words slick with amusement.

Stiles is increasingly becoming uncomfortable with this entire scene. He tries to maneuver out of Derek's grasp, but it's a losing battle. 

“Uh, yeah... Just for a few seconds, no biggie.”

Peter snorts somewhere behind him, and Derek is just staring at him, skepticism leaking from every pore.

For the second time tonight, he feels insulted.

Derek shifts his attention to Nicholas, “We'll travel to wherever this ghost of yours is supposedly located, and if Stiles is able to give you what you need, you will leave Beacon Hills behind.”

Nicholas takes the time to glance at every one of his packmates before ultimately nodding his head, “Agreed.”

26

This time, Stiles does get to see precisely where they are going. Unfortunately, also like before, he has no ruddy choice in the matter. 

No one had asked him, or listened to him when he said he hadn't signed up for this... So here he is. Back in the house where he had seen the mangled figure of a dead guy. 

Well, no, that is not fully accurate. Maybe a dead werewolf?

He's glad he remembered to grab that tuft of fennel, but then he recalls that only keeps away evil spirits. What if this ghost isn't evil?

He doubts the guy will even grace them with his presence – not with the room as cramped as it is. Derek and Peter are in one corner, with Nicholas and the two fucktard twins in the other. Isaac and one of the other Alphas are outside by the vehicles.

“Guys, no ghost is going to show up with all of you here...”

They all ignore him though, and so he just stands there in his little salt circle – because fuck them, he is going to be as protected as possible.

They wait a long while, until even the twins are fiddling their thumbs.

“Nicholas, evidently, this boy is not what we thought. Are we done here?”

And that's all it takes – Vincent's imperious tone, and the ghost is smack-dab in front of Stiles' face, though not crossing the salt line.

Stiles can't keep in his scream, even if he has the frightened pitch of a nine-year-old girl.

“Holy fucking shit!”

The spirit looks the same as before, still young and bloody; still dead. This time around, though, he's fucking _pissed_.

“You again! Why is he here?!” the spirit demands, timbre on a frequency Stiles could swear is higher than a dog whistle. The others can't hear his rage, but they sure as hell see the mirror that spontaneously shatters _prior_ to dropping from its hanger.

The werewolves' stances are all defensive, but they otherwise remain stationary; observing. 

Stiles feels like he's in a goddamn zoo.

“He? Who?” Stiles asks, stuttering somewhat in an attempt to be nonchalant.

“My cousin. He killed me. He was supposed to be the Alpha, but it didn't pass to him, it transferred to me, and he just went berserk. He killed me, and now he's back. I'm not strong enough to do anything, all I can really do is keep the soil around my grave from setting, so they know that I'm restless.”

Pent-up ghost frustration can apparently still shake the floorboards though.

“That's why they are here, aren't they? They're trying to figure it out, and he hasn't told them. I'll kill him! I'll fucking kill him!”

The sheer force of the spirit's anger utilizes a commanding form, disturbing the very air around them. Stiles in untouched, but the others? They are all flattened against the surrounding walls, but not for long. They're back on their feet, snarling with bared fangs; all of them except Vincent, who keeps getting slammed back down.

The spirit is in a frenzy, red eyes gaining intensity with every pained groan he reaps.

Well, Stiles knows who the murderer is. As much as he would have loved to just let the spirit have at it, Derek is relying on him, and Deaton had told him never to pass up the chance to put a spirit at rest if he could feasibly do so.

Salt already in hand, he tosses it over the boy's spectral outline. He shouts with a volume sharp enough to pop Stiles' ears, then melts away. 

A lull falls over them, everything distinctly more peaceful. It's not near normal, but it's a step in the right direction. Stiles still can't take it any longer.

“Okay, can we leave now, please? And oh, you might want to detain Vincent – he's going to make a run for it as soon as we're out of the room.”

27

“With the Alpha Pack out there, and Vincent free, and likely gunning for Stiles, we're going to have to watch out for each other.”

Derek is giving one of his apparently frequent pack lectures, and Stiles finds himself included – hell, maybe even the main subject. He and Isaac are on the couch, and Isaac has his arm up against Stiles'. Erica is lying out at their feet, Boyd cuddled up close to her. Peter is sitting in the computer chair, feigning rapt attention. 

It feels right, too right, though Scott and Allison should be here too. Despite that, Stiles is overcome with the realization that, human or not, he's the member of a frigging bona fide _wolf pack_.

How fucking cool is that?! 

28

Although Stiles isn't sure why, Derek accompanies him outside. He doesn't say a word, just watches him like a creeper as he unlocks the car and hops inside.

As he's closing the door, Derek grabs his wrist.

“Just because Scott has refused me as his Alpha doesn't mean that I have forgotten everything you've done for me.”

Derek is close, so close. His eyes are dark, determined with not a speck of red. His mouth is inches away, and Stiles can't help but glance down, seeing the white flash of fangs.

Stiles has lost the ability to breathe, but it's not because he's afraid. They've been in this position before, under much more desperate circumstances, so no – he's not afraid.

“I won't ever forget.”

With that, Derek is gone, the warm air around him crumbling with the harsh bite of nighttime. As he starts his car, Stiles realizes that Derek smells like the forest, all clumped leaves and sequoia. It is a pleasant aroma, and serves as a decent diversion for the drive home. He's so invested that he doesn't even get angry when he notices Isaac running behind his vehicle.

He does however get a little pissy when Isaac parkours up into Stiles' room before he even gets his foot through the door.

29

Isaac sleeps on the floor, and if anybody asks, it's only because he won't leave and Stiles can't allow him to sleep outside, even if his werewolf ass could endure one night under the stars. He simply can't be that cruel, not to someone who has saved his life.

Oh, so maybe that's why they were doing this for him.

30

Having a big group of friends is nice, but mostly awkward. Scott has no idea how to cope with Stiles' new bodyguards, since at least one of Derek's pack is with him at all times. Especially since Stiles hasn't had the chance to tell Scott all that's been going on.

When lunch rolls around, Scott doesn't so much as make an effort to sit with Allison. He's on Stiles like a graphic design student on a mac. 

“What is going on, Stiles?” Scott says when _all_ of them have sat down.

“Ah, nothing really. Just a pack of Alpha's roaming around Beacon Hills, and one of them has fixated on me. Oh, and I can see spirits now. Not sure how that happened, but whatever.”

Scott just blinks, going all confused dweeb. Stiles grins. 

Yep, for once, it's at least partially about Stiles. Sure, that's absolutely and positively not a good thing, but hey, he'll take what perks he can get.

31

Isaac stays with him again that evening, this time out in the open since his dad is at work. Chris Argent shows up immediately when dinner – ala frozen pizza - is ready. All in all, it's definitely a typical night.

He's stuffing an all too hot slice of cheese and dough into his mouth when he opens the door. Chris treats it as no shocker, “You weren't here yesterday.”

Isaac peaks around the corner, “Mr. Argent.”

He's a polite kid, really.

Chris sighs, “And now you have a werewolf in your house. Not doing so hot, are you, Stiles?”

“Oh, I don't know. Not dead yet, so that's a plus.”

“What's been going on?”

“I was hoping that you could tell me, actually, cuz I'm confused as hell.”

32

“What's that he gave you?” Isaac asks once Chris's car disappears from view.

Stiles holds out his hand, rolling the object around his palm. It's heavy for a ring. Gunmetal silver with no fancy adornments. Simple. 

“He said it will keep me safe.” 

He slips it on, feeling it tingle against his skin. It must be working.

33

It isn't fucking working.

In reality, he wakes up with a burning rash the precise shape and size of the ring. He takes it off and leaves it next to the sink, but the damage is already done.

By mid-day, murky tendrils have wound their way up his finger, beginning to inch onto the back of his hand. By last bell, a morbid web of black designs has eaten his whole hand.

Shit.

34

“Get your hunter ass to my house right now! That ring you gave me has poisoned me or something – I think my hand is about to fall off!”

The line is just static and breath for a moment, until Chris swears, “Wonderful. This is just goddamn wonderful... I was hoping... Okay, Stiles, I assume Isaac is with you? Keep him close by. I'll be there soon.”

Chris Argent, telling him to stay by a werewolf? He's half a mind to make sure the sky isn't raining oranges.

35

It takes Chris at least an hour to get there. When he arrives, he's got a weird yellow-green flower with him. Stiles points to it, “You brought me flowers to apologize? You shouldn't have.”

As per his usual, Chris smiles but then turns dead serious, “Stiles, give me your hand.”

When he offers his charred-black limb, Chris promptly slathers the flowers all over it. Stiles makes a face, “The hell are you doing?”

“Trying something, now shut up and watch.”

36

Although he's able to wash most of the plant off, streaks of yellow and green residue linger, but the black veins have all vanished. Well, not vanished. They had been leeched from his skin, the plant itself absorbing the color.

He holds up the inky flower so that Isaac can see it before examining it closer, “What is this anyways?”

“St. John's Wort. It's historically a fairy herb, known for its healing properties.”

“Fairy? Oh my god, do fairies exist too?” Stiles laughs, genuinely excited, because, c'mon, wouldn't that just be the cherry on top of his supernatural sundae?

“I didn't know if they did before, but I do now.”

Stiles furrows his brow in curiosity, “How?”

“You are one.”

37

“I went to school with your mother. Kate had always thought something was off about her, that she was too unreal somehow, and knew far too much. She investigated for years, even after graduation, and she'd rave about herbs and glamors... We thought Kate was just working herself too hard, seeing creatures everywhere due to her training, especially when she came up with one word. Fae.”

Chris pauses, and Stiles can't fucking breath, can't move, can't so much as think.

“I didn't believe her. None of us did. To believe in fairies seemed to be more strange than even werewolves, because at least werewolves had a basis in humanity. Fairies? There has always been stories, but for one to just be waltzing around as human woman? I didn't think it was logical.”

Stiles doesn't even know how to feel, so he doesn't try. He just listens, his heartbeat wracking in his chest.

“But then I took the time to watch you, Stiles. You have been wherever the wolves are, present at almost every incident in the past six months. Wolves trust and depend on you, as though you're a power in of yourself, despite just being a normal teenage boy. Magical creatures are naturally drawn to you. Not even you could deny that.”

Stiles snorts. Chris doesn't know the half of it. The memory of Peter asking him he wanted the bite surfaces to the forefront of his mind. He shudders. It is all slotting together right before his eyes.

“Then Deaton took an interest in you, and you proved to be capable of manipulating substances with magical attributes – mountain ash, fennel, even salt rings take a certain amount of faith that is absent in most humans.

But what really cinched it was when you saw the spirit. It takes more than a mere acquaintance with werewolves to gain that kind of ability. Not even wolves can see them. One needs to have otherworld in their veins, or to be bestowed with the gift, well, perhaps a curse – and you certainly haven't been blessed by anyone, have you?”

Not that he can recall, but he can't be sure; nevertheless, he _knows_ that's not the case.

“I still needed proof. There isn't much information on the fae in our texts, since the fairy world has been regarded as superstition for centuries. I still found reoccurring entries about iron or steel being corrosive to any fae, though supposedly not fatal.”

Chris frowns, his eyes looking more dour than is strictly necessary, “It was only after you called me with this... problem that I took another look at those texts. I somehow missed the crucial aspect of purity – in order for the steel to be non-lethal, it has to be buffered by another material, like gold or silver, to dilute its potency. For that, I apologize.”

That rankles, and it is finally something he can comment on, “You seriously could have permanently crippled me, and all I'm going to get is an apology? That's pretty lame.”

“I know, Stiles, but bear with me, there's more. Everyone knows that st. john's wort has healing properties-”

Stiles rolls his eyes, “Everyone? Really? Did I miss the memo?”

Chris just ignores him, “and old wives tales relate it to fairies, so I thought we could try it.”

Stiles sets him with a disbelieving glare, “My hand was being held in the balance, and you relied on an old wives tale for a solution? That is just fantastic. You're lucky it worked.”

Chris smirks, shaking his head, “No, _you're_ lucky, Stiles, but it still stands - that sort of miraculous recovery simply is not feasible with someone fully human.”

38

Bullshit. Chris is insane, and so is his crappy conclusion. Except not really, because it all made a sick amount of sense. Magical creatures _are_ drawn to him, like Vincent, Peter, and even somewhat the Kanima.

What about that Alpha with the smug smile, who had said something to Derek about not knowing about him? Was that true? Did Derek not know? Undoubtedly, Scott didn't, even if he had commented on how strangely easy it is for others to want to trust and protect him. 

And his mother being a fae? Sure, he can only barely remember her, but to imagine her as an ethereal elegant, beautiful fairy?

He can see it. 

So yeah, he's a little unsettled, because good god – this is a lot to handle, if it's true. There's a chance it's not, except, so help him, it fits. It's not even that surprising, considering everything else that is supposed to be reserved for fairy tales alone that literally exist. Like fucking werewolves.

What really blows his mind is that his first inclination had been to run to the forest to think, and so here he is, practically hugging a tree, holding tight to the trunk while he sits on a raised root. So yep, he is taking comfort in the bark of a tree rather than a bottle of vodka or a good video game. It isn't exactly proof, but it is rather telling.

He continues to cling to the trunk for quite some time. He doesn't even mind the concept that insects are most certainly crawling all over him by now – they're a part of the forest, and they can't hurt him, never could, never will; surely, a fae can't be killed by a bug bite?

39

“A fae who runs with wolves. I never thought I'd see one of your kind, not to mention a half-human fae, someone who can be turned, who has all of the perks and none of the weaknesses. I just can't let this opportunity slip by.”

Vincent has Stiles up against his own bedroom door, hand around his throat. He can breathe just fine, the pressure of his digits merely a warning. The gesture does its job; Stiles is appropriately nervous. The Alpha has already taken away his sole defense, his mountain ash, the container lying open a couple feet away while the powder drifts out uselessly onto the floor.

The gun his dad bought him is still secured in his dresser, and those bullets are laying in wait in his desk drawer, so far away and inaccessible. What an advantageous purchase that was... Well, more so, those are stupid places to put something so crucial; hopefully he'll have his whole future ahead of him to learn from his mistake.

He's had a long, rough day. He just wanted to flop into bed, so when he came home to an empty house – no Isaac, no Chris, no dad – he thought he had it made.

The scary Alpha smirking at him and stroking his cheek with one extremely sharp claw says otherwise.

Stiles rolls his neck as much as he can, testing Vincent's grip, “I don't get what makes me so special. If I get turned, do I sprout glittery fairy wings or something?”

Vincent laughs, and isn't it nice to have a talent for making murderers laugh? He buries his nose in space below Stiles' ear and next to his jawline, while his fingers tighten right on his larynx. Stiles gasps, his breathing more than obstructed now.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Vincent murmurs.

He's sniffing in deep, and Stiles is so sick of hearing that disgusting sound, “You smell like energy, Stiles.”

Somehow, he's paying attention, regardless of the fact that he feels like his face is about to explode.

“Pure, unadulterated _energy_ , unclaimed and untapped. You also smell like pack, like wolves, like Alpha. I'm guessing that has to do with your brooding leader...”

Vincent abruptly yanks his hands away, and Stiles is sent into a coughing fit, his chest aching and his limbs weightless. His brain feels way too light, but he'll survive. Before he's even recuperated, Vincent slams him even harder into the door, this time with his whole body, hands braced on the door next to his head. 

His irises resemble glowing embers, and Stiles blames oxygen deprivation for the comparison.

“There has never been a half-fae of your age, and never one that could be turned. You're unique, Stiles, and I'm a collector of sorts. Your blood sings to me, and I need to have you. Can you imagine how strong you'd be? A forest fae, gaining energy from the trees, who is also a werewolf, a creature of the night and of the woods. Perfect picture, is it not?”

Those eyes deepen in color, and Stiles knows he's in trouble. Vincent is a straight-up killer, a man owned by his beast; not like Derek, where he's at least a little cuddley underneath, or even Peter, who is selfishly predictable. No, this dude is going to make good on everything he says. He's going to taste his blood, he's going to rip him apart, and there is nothing Stiles can do about it.

His heart virtually drops out of his ass when he hears a howl, so thankful that he doesn't even take a second to appreciate the fact that the whole town of Beacon Hills is either deaf, lazy, or they really think wolves are native to present-day California.

Vincent is growling, and Stiles wonders for a moment if he isn't as safe as he thinks, but then the Alpha is nipping at his throat and leaping out of the window on all fours. Gone.

40

The rush that accompanies nearly being bitten is not even close to dissipating when Derek and Peter climb through his window as though his house doesn't have a perfectly nice door. 

“Did you get him?”

“No. He's too fast...” Derek is pouting.

Of course he is pouting.

“Then why did you have to howl and alert him like that?!”

“Would you have preferred we attack him in your room? Or wait for him to bite you, when it would be too late?”

Stiles went silent, mumbling something incoherent before nodding, “Fine, fine, okay. What do I do now?”

“We'll do as we did before. Someone will be with you at all times, whether you like it or not,” Derek acts like it's the only option. 

“Oh? What happened to my bodyguard before, then? Why did you let this happen?”

Derek didn't answer him, doing his best imitation of a nosy wolf instead as he rooted through Stiles' desk.

“We wouldn't have to use you as bait if you could defend yourself in the first place,” Peter says when Derek refuses to respond, “You should have accepted my offer.”

Both Stiles and Derek freeze like spooked deer, staring at Peter in shock for entirely different reasons. 

“You used me as bait!?” the same time as “What offer?”

Derek advances on Peter first, his temper palpable in the form of extended claws, “What offer, Peter?”

“I simply saw the potential in him, before you did, mind you, and asked politely if he wanted the bite. He obviously said no. Do you have a problem with that, Derek?”

Peter is too calm, and Stiles can swear that there is a smirk tugging at his lips, all too pleased with himself. Stiles doesn't care that he is likely playing right into his hands, he turns on Derek, indignation tingling the very tips of his fingers, “You're seriously going to focus on that right now? After you told me that you wouldn't forget what I've done? What happened to 'you're pack, Stiles', huh?! You used me as bait! I could have been turned!”

Derek is snarling, “And you don't want to be turned?!”

Stiles is taken aback, really, and he stutters, “Uh, no, of course not. Not by that raging douchebag, no.”

“And not by me,” Peter adds, as if he's being helpful. Prick.

Stiles grits his teeth, doing his best to ignore Peter's very presence, “Are we forgetting that I could have been killed too? You risked my life, and you didn't even catch him!”

“It was a chance we were willing to take... You were never in any real danger. Do you really think I'd let you get hurt?”

“I don't know what to think anymore!” Stiles throws his hands up, anger and confusion turning to panic as his throat closes up and he can't breathe, can't swallow, again, just like before, and before, and before... 

He needs out. He needs fucking out.

He shoots towards the door, driven by a single-minded focus, because if he doesn't get away, he's going to die, or kill someone, or, something, he doesn't know for sure.

Derek is there, and Stiles doesn't even think. He aims a right hook, and god, it ends so badly – because it makes its target and sweet baby jesus on a pike, it hurts like a motherfucking _bitch_. 

It's just enough to shake him out of it, somewhat, as he cradles his arm, his face pinching in pain, “Ow, I immediately regret that decision."

Derek looks unaffected, physically, but his eyes are veritable pools of liquid emotion.

“Don't you dare. Stop it with the puppy eyes! I can't do this. I've had a rough night, okay?”

Peter snickers, and no, that is definitely not allowed right now.

Stiles faces him, pointer finger accusatory, “What the hell is so funny?! I just found out that I'm a goddamn fairy! I think I have a right to be a little upset!”

“Upset? Darling, you are positively _glowing_ ,” Peter drawls, amused as he motions towards the lone mirror in his room; a tiny little square next to his chest of drawers. 

Stiles is wary, but he takes it as a challenge. When he catches the first glance of himself, he lunges closer without hesitation, because fuck him sideways, Peter is right. He's _glowing_. No, not him, but his eyes are.

His usual indistinguishable brown is lit up as though the sun is peering through his irises, stirring honey-gold streaks into the once boring hue. 

Just like that, the panic attack sets back in, and he's out the door and clamoring for his jeep, which isn't there. Just that damn rental. He's so screwed up that he does the most idiotic thing imaginable – he starts to walk. 

41

He guesses that Derek or Peter contacted Deaton to come pick him up. He's too jarred to bother apologizing for his immaturity, and Deaton doesn't ask him too, so it works out.

Instead, the self-identified veterinarian takes him to his clinic, sits him down, and begins to tell him everything.

“Your parents were both active members of the community. Your father was just as honorable and hard-working as he is now, and your mother, well, everyone knew she was the heart of him, until you were born, of course. What everyone didn't know was that you were a sickly child, prone to catching colds and staying sick for weeks, even months at a time; constantly in and out of the hospital. Only I knew, outside of your father, but I also knew something he did not. 

“I knew why. Lorelai was of the Seelie Court, one who had fallen in love with a human and bore him a half-fae child. Being what you are, you need the light of the fae-world to keep you sustained – the energy that is found on the mortal plane is insufficient. But being part-human, you could not cross into that realm, not until you were old enough to survive the transition – and you did not have that kind of time.

“So your mother and I found a ritual, one rarely invoked due to its dire consequences. It would create an adequate energy-source for you, but it required one's last breath to be complete. Your mother refused to lose you, and so, she died to tie her life-force to yours, thus enabling you to live without ever having to cross into the Fae-world.”

For the second time in just a few hours, Stiles has no clue how to respond. He's not even sure he's registering what Deaton is saying, the words embedding themselves in his brain despite him not knowing what to do with them. 

He just stares, squinting in slow realization. His mother died to save him.

He suddenly feels sick, his stomach doing flips while he look everywhere and nowhere at all, just trying to center himself but having nothing to hang on to.

It's like drowning all over again.

He seriously can't breathe, his chest clenching tight and asphyxiating. There's a pressure in his skull, squeezing and so familiar, because he can never catch a break.

Oh god, his mother died because of him. It really _is_ his fault. Memories of the night of Lydia's birthday strikes him with nausea.

“I killed her. I really did kill her. My dad, oh god, my dad doesn't even know! When he finds out, he's going to hate me. I can't-”

He's backing away from Deaton, not really sure what the doctor is doing or not doing to help; just as long as he isn't touching him, he doesn't care.

He's against a wall and he slides down it, curling his arms around his knees and burying his head in the makeshift cave to hide his blurry eyes – the dogs have started to bark, pinpricks in his already aching head. 

Someone is touching him, and he scrambles away. If he whines like a wounded animal, well, no one comments. 

“Stiles. You're going to be fine. Breathe, you're not alone. Not anymore.” 

He's being touched again, hands on his shoulders this time. He tries to move away, but then he's embraced, the scent of leaves and dirt enveloping his senses. It's nearly instant, the balm that drapes over him like the limbs surrounding him, and just as tangible.

“Isaac,” Stiles' voice is wet with emotion, and he doesn't conceal how happy he is to see – smell? - his fur-clad white knight. He isn't even embarrassed about it.

“Yeah, it's me,” he says, and Stiles sighs in relief. Someone who isn't infuriating or disingenuous. Good.

Isaac speaks to him about nothing, inane babble that would normally irritate him but instead soothes him. There's something particular about Isaac's tone. It gives him something to focus on. His anxiety graually recedes, and with the assistance of Isaac's gently stroking fingers on his back, he gets his breathing under control. He still feels wrecked, and so exhausted.

The dogs have stopped their racket, finally, but his skull continues to pound. That won't be going away any time soon.

“Deaton still wants to talk to you.... but it can wait until tomorrow if you're too tired.”

It takes a little while, but Stiles nods, “No, no, I want it over with. Do it like a band-aid – rip this thing right off.”

Isaac helps him up, and by help, Stiles means that he lifts him. It's not that Stiles can't do it himself, it's that Isaac refuses to allow him to attempt it.

Deaton is waiting for them in the lobby, and Stiles sits down in one of the chairs, hoping he at least looks like he can cope with whatever is coming next.

“Are you sure you want to do this now?”

Evidently not.

“Yes, just... just tell me whatever it is you have to tell me so I can go home and pass out, okay?”

Isaac grips his shoulder, just a reminder he's there, and a trickle of hysteria that had began to flourish unnoticed sunk back into dormancy. 

“All right. When I said that your mother was of the Seelie Court, what I meant by that was, for the lack of a better word, she was of the 'good' fae, those whose intentions are generally to bless and enhance rather than be destructive as their opposites are fond of – those of the Unseelie Court. Being a part of her, you are inherently Seelie, as she was.

“The energy your mother gave you also served to smother your otherworld nature, so that you could pass more easily – she had cast a glamor on herself to achieve that. In a way, what she gave you was also a glamor, and in order to stay in tact, you were supposed to stay away from anything that would erode it; until you were ready.

“Unfortunately for you, you had no choice, since Scott was bitten and you're now part of a world where you're in constant contact with the supernatural. Because of this, your powers surfaced. I'll admit that part of that was my fault, in giving you access to mountain ash, which, as a tree aligned with the fae, is directly tied to your aura. 

“I'm sure you noticed that wolves were suddenly much more attached to you after your stint with the ash, perhaps taking orders from you, or trying to make you happy, or scenting you.”

Stiles glances at Isaac, who had removed his hand at the initial insinuation. They are now stuffed into his pockets and the tiled floor has seemingly become intriguing.

“It's just in their nature to respond to you in such a fashion. You're a child of the forest, just as they are, and thus you are family to them, or potential family.”

Well, that explains a lot.

“The injuries that you have sustained in the past few weeks, they've gone away, haven't they? But they still hurt? It's because they have been glamored. They aren't gone, just shrouded by your innate magic. You can learn to control it. I can teach you, if you will accept my aid. You don't have to answer now. Just think about what I've said.”

Stiles stands up, wanting solely to get the hell out of here so he can see the sky, the trees – and god, aren't Deaton and Chris just right about everything?!

“Wait. Before you go, one more thing. Your mother made her choice. She would rather you live than dwell on her sacrifice. Yes, she died for you, but not so you could hate yourself and squander her last gift. Remember that.”

42

The moon outside is ethereal and mocking, curved in an oblique crescent. He pauses to take it in, to try to find some sort of solace in it, but all he feels is empty.

He can't even muster the energy to be distraught, or to feel guilty. He knows why, because he'd rather feel nothing than have to ponder on Deaton's cheap parting shot – that bastard. He knew just where to dig, because he is right. His mom would never want him to mourn more than he already was, to not take advantage of what she had died for.

His life, his existence.

With that in mind, he had best make something of himself. Make her proud. If she had been a fae, then he can be too – a damn good one, with Deaton's help and guidance.

But for now? He just wants to regular old human Stiles Stilinski, first name disregarded. 

And doesn't that name of his make sense now? Only a fairy could think of that shit and think it's okay.

“Stiles?”

He had almost forgotten that Isaac is there, and he still doesn't pay him much mind.

“I'm fine,” he says it just to stop him from asking.

“Yeah, sure you are.”

Stiles thinks that, perhaps, he is going to be able to take the scenic route home – not alone, like he'd prefer – but then Derek is there, swinging up in his fancy camero like he has the right to be there.

Stiles doesn't need saving, if that is what he is here for. Not this time.

For once, it's Stiles who has the scowl firmly secured onto his face, “What the hell are you doing here, Derek?”

Derek just smirks and shrugs, hand flippantly gesturing towards his car, “Figured you'd want a ride home. We need to talk anyways.”

Anger starts to fill up that emptiness. He likes it more than the desolation from before, so he latches onto it.

“We don't have anything to talk about. You made yourself totally clear when you risked my life, thanks.”

“Stiles, you were never in any real danger, like I said before.”

Stiles laughs, “Ha! That's funny! He could have bit me and _then_ gone after you! You don't know! Just because it didn't happen that way doesn't mean it couldn't have.”

Stiles groans in frustration, running a hand through his prickly hair, “Listen, I just found out that I truly did as good as murder my own mother, so I really do not want to deal with your bullshit attempts at an apology, okay? I've got bigger problems.”

Derek stops, blinking, and Stiles takes a step back when the wolf just... _changes_. It doesn't last long, like a camera flash, but it's there. Genuine empathy, his eyes slanting with a deep, submerging sadness. 

Isaac, too, spots it, and the whine that exits his throat causes Stiles' hackles to rise. 

That part of Derek, whatever it was, had never been meant for anyone other than Derek himself. It was too private, too intimate.

Stiles feels like he's trespassed, somehow, and he shakes his head, “Nevermind, I'm … Just, you know what? Isaac can follow me or something, but I'm going for a walk.”

43

It's not Isaac who guards him – it's Derek. Stiles doesn't mind, really, because he's sort of hoping that he's able to build up the courage to apologize. He feels bad, yet he can't seem to convince himself to say he's sorry. He can't. His petty grudge doesn't allow for it, and he feels worse about that than anything else.

Derek stays in the shadows, and far enough behind that Stiles has his space. It's comforting to know he's safe, even if it's asshole Derek who's watching over him.

He wonders if, with Deaton's help, he'll sincerely be able to defend himself once he learns more about being what he is. It's just so crazy, and he can't so much as muse over the possibilities because it drives him to the one, inevitable conclusion.

He is the reason his mother is dead, no matter why she chose to do it. In the end, the blame is still on him. The thought swirls around in his brain until he's sick, leaning against the trunk of an especially wide redwood while he tries not to lose what little lunch he'd consumed.

A hand he simply knows belongs to Derek runs a smooth circle over his back. His touch is not nearly as rough as his demeanor suggests. 

Stiles rights himself, glancing at Derek, who doesn't remove his hand.

He looks away, focusing on the tree bark instead, “What I said earlier...”

“I killed my family. Well, I was the cause of their deaths.”

Stiles earns himself practical whip-lash looking at Derek, mouth open.

“I was sleeping with Kate Argent. She fooled me with her charm, and I fell in love. She made me believe that she loved me too. Then she burned my house and my pack. I was old enough to know better. I should have seen right through her – I'm a werewolf! You... You were a child. You were innocent. It wasn't your fault.”

Honestly, Stiles doesn't even hear that last part. It isn't important.

“You... Kate... she... Derek, god, you... You think you're to blame for that? She tricked you! And weren't you like sixteen?! She must have been at least twenty-five! It was her who decided to hire arsonists and to murder your family - _her_ , not you!”

Despite this, Stiles is well aware that Derek will have thought of every point he makes. Guilt isn't resolved by mere logic – people, werewolves included, don't operate that way.

So yes, he knows it's futile. But then again, so did Derek when he vouched for Stiles' supposed 'innocence'. What matters is saying it, hearing it, and knowing it's true for that split second before all of the shame comes flooding back, suffocating just like before. It's worth the chance to breathe though.

Derek is silent, but so is Stiles. They both know they've said enough for now, so they just carry on walking, side-by-side now.

Stiles has not forgiven him, oh no, but they've got common ground, and with that, they'll move forward. 

44

“I'm sure you're aware that it is past midnight on a school night...”

His dad doesn't sound angry, just tired. Another stab of guilt twists in Stiles' gut, biting his lip ever so slightly so he doesn't just break down in apologies that he can't so much as explain. He can't even begin to, especially not now. Not before he comes to terms.

“Sorry dad. Didn't mean to stay out so long. Scott and I lost track of time.”

His dad opens his mouth as if to say something, but then he closes it and just nods with a kind of resigned exhaustion.

“Try not to let it happen again.”

Stiles goes to bed.

45

He gets back to his room and finally looks at his phone. There's a text from Scott.

_“Hey, dude, I saw your dad today. He had to come into the restaurant I took Allison to, something about the waiter skimming off the top or something. Hang out tomorrow?”_

Shit. Now his dad thinks he's a liar. Which he is.... best he just think that about him, at this point. That makes it hurts even more, really.

46

Derek is there when he leaves for school in the morning. Stiles gives him the stink-eye as he slides into the passenger seat of the wolf's stupid camero, “You were watching me all last night weren't you?”

He doesn't answer, hitting the gas harder than exactly called for instead.

Stiles straps on his seat-belt and concentrates on the road. After a little bit, he sighs, “Next time you can just stay in my room, okay?”

Yeah, it's a start.

1

Peter doesn't need much sleep, so he hears the Alpha snuffling around outside while the others slumber. Others being Isaac and Derek, both of whom are heavy sleepers. It's too easy, really, to sneak up behind the naïve Alpha. To thrust one claw through his vulnerable gut, to wrench in deep and jerk back out, covered in crimson excess and bitter-pink organ. 

It's not sufficient to end the poor bastard yet. Oh no, he leaps at him, all fury and righteous vengeance, but Peter slaps him down. The Alpha is weaker than he expected – even for a beta like Peter. He is strong and quick, but he lacks all technique, letting his youth run the show rather than _thinking_. 

It's over in minutes, his torso lying a few meters from his lower body, naked and disgraced. 

Peter has won, and he feels the power flood into him, the aptitude of an Alpha, again, and all his. No one will take it from him this time.

And he has such plans!

The Alpha Pack still roams about, and he will finish them off, with Derek's help, because two Alpha's are better than one, and they have Peter's experience on their side. They have his mind, his _ambition_.

If they play their cards right, practically all of them will be Alpha's, the worthy of their brood, with him as their justified leader. He will teach them, and together, they will become the new, one and only Alpha pack. They will rule, from their little home, never breaking any werewolf or hunter laws from now on. 

Why not move forward, why not conquer? Peter is no glorified dictator of the world. He wishes solely for his life back, his family. He wants them to be strong enough to endure any attack made on them, physically and emotionally. He wants them to more than survive, he wants them high enough on the food chain that no one dare fuck with them.

He wants their existences to be relatively peacefully.

And ah, Stiles makes it all the easier. As a fae-born, he is endowed with more power than he realizes. He has glamor, he has illusion under his thumb, if only he learn to utilize it. And he will, because Peter will make certain of it.

He will provide him with a teacher, and Stiles will mature into his weapon, his sword and shield, so to speak; perhaps more than that.

Deaton may have defied him before, but Peter is much more restrained than his pre-death self. He learned from his blind quest for revenge. He will be the Alpha his fledgling family deserves, and then some.

It is true that originally, he had aimed to play Stiles off of Derek, distracting the mewling newborn Alpha with a shiny fae that he had already fallen for long before the big revelation. Then he would have possessed a valid reason to challenge his nephew – for Stiles. To kill Derek with no guilty conscience or disregard of tradition. He would have taken the power of Alpha for himself, as well as Stiles, but this will work better. 

It is more organic, for the two to grow closer and join of their own accord. He can still push. He can take Stiles for himself later on, if he is so inclined, but no, for now this will tie Derek's pack to him. Derek is his and always has been. With Stiles comes Scott – and thus everyone else.

He howls, unafraid of waking Derek and Isaac. Let them come. Let them see – they will know by morning nevertheless.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very open-ended conclusion, I know. I may write more once S3 starts up, since it will be summer and I'll have more of a muse, but for now, this is it. Let your imaginations run wild!


End file.
